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Archive => Archive 2013 => Archive => BLAKES 7 => : Ant January 26, 2013, 02:59:49 PM

: A Nightmare...or a memory?
: Ant January 26, 2013, 02:59:49 PM
The world around him is dark and silent and the only perception he has is that of slowly falling, jerking him suddenly in to consciousness.
Around his body he feels his chair restrain him, seeming to envelope him and wrap around him like some warm, soft arms. His fists unclench and without thinking his fingertips rest on some sort of control interface that is instinctively familiar to him.
In the darkness a helmet is lowered onto his head and a feeling of nausea and fear rises in him. It feels like long, thin fingers are caressing his head, even caressing his mind and he feels like his life is being laid bare. He begins to panic but as the helmet is lowered so his distress is suppressed and squashed down into a tight ball inside him so that while it remains, it is left to futilely scream as if trapped in an airlock.
As the helmet settles on his head a jarring cacophony of sights and sounds flood in to his mind, his senses are nearly overwhelmed for a moment as information crashes directly into his cortex. The ship beyond his seat and the space beyond the ship all come into his perception at once. Not only that but his sense of time itself becomes distorted as his perceptions of the here and now and the imminent future all mingle together. What is and what might be all crowd into his mind and he screams in pain and all goes black once more...
As his senses slowly return the perception of space and time around him is less…forceful, less…violating. Instead there is a feeling of power within him as his awareness extends to the ships engines, to its navigation, to its weapons. His fear, pain and anguish is subsumed with a feeling of pent up anticipation and the feeling of being a predator constrained. But amidst all these sensations there is also a taste of malevolence, of cruelty, of something not human, something that had taken pleasure in Raige’s pain and fear.
Other thoughts begin to impinge on to his senses. Other minds with their own goals, their own will and own understanding of the now and the near now. They seem familiar to him, but also distant, and too numerous as if more than one thought occupies the same loci.
His sense of time seems to no longer have any context or reference either. He can see the ship in space and in its dock at the same time. Where it was and where it would be are overlaid upon each other like a misaligned stereoscope.
He senses the near future as the ship begins to move just as in the present he senses the engines powering up and then, in his new present the ship begins to move just as he has already experienced and in his new future he sees the ship leaving its dock. Slowly the ship leaves its dock and he simply understands, perceives the diverging futures of the vessel.
As the spaceship leaves its moorings his fingers subconsciously caress the control surfaces at their tips and he feels like some giant venomous arachnid baring its fangs as the ships weapon systems come on-line. Space around him for a parsec or more becomes his reality and his attention flicks from object to object, investigating it, analysing it, classifying it by threat rating and target value with criteria that comes from a mind not of his own.
His attention fixes on the biggest threat to them within range. It is a large, powerful cruiser of the Federation Navy and Raige’s senses focus in on it, narrowing like a hunters, so that all other things became a vague blur at the periphery.
His fingertips tingle as he scans over the cruiser’s engines, its bridge, its sensor dome and its own weapons turrets. He knows just where to aim to cripple it, to blind it or to kill it and he knows with terrible certainty, or is it a terrible memory, that his weapons can burn through the cruiser without thought.
The options of the future play out in front of him; if he fires, if he doesn’t fire, where he would be and where his target would. All these things he sees as he struggles with the desire to kill the cruiser with an urge that is both his and not his until this desire ebbs away.
His vision expands again back to the wider sphere of space around him and he continues to assess the near space objects. The station, the myriad of things orbiting it, wider out to the system and its planets and other ships transiting further and further…
The engines rise in power again and the chair hugs him tighter, pulling him into it as the present and future begin to separate from each other.  His awareness of the space around him shrinks as the speed of the ship increases, as the divergence between past, present and future increases ever faster and each object in his awareness becomes a string of possibilities stretching away from the single present.
One of the other thoughts within his head screams shattering Raige’s perception like a mirror, each shard reflecting a different thought and reality.
He doesn’t know if it is a real scream, born of lungs and vocal chords or if it is a scream borne of mind and synapses. His attention jolts to the here and now and his brain feels like it is being pierced by a thousand needles and the feeling of horror returns, that feeling of revulsion and of being violated springs free.
Suddenly he is aware that the helmet on his head is cloying; something is wrapped around his head, something warm, and something that hates him. His arms are strapped down, his body is constrained and he tries to lift his arms. The muffled sound of someone screaming filters into his ears and he begins to struggle.
His arms slowly come free and it feels as if he is trying to swim in molasses as he reaches to pull his helmet off. There is a sense of anger directed at him, of terrible malevolent anger as he wrenches at his helmet. His face begins to burn, every nerve on fire as he lifts it off, feeling like the very skin of his face is being ripped off as he pulls it away but all this is nothing compared to the feeling of fear and revulsion he has of being inside the helmet.
With a cry he finally breaks free. His senses seem dull and limited and he feels dazed as if very hung over. His aching eyes, his dry mouth and swollen tongue all add to this impression. Through his blurred vision his first sight is the helmet he now holds. It is oversized and bulbous and makes him think of an insect of some sort; inside it are a score of metallic silver tentacles that even now writhe hungrily towards his face, fine needles on their tips drip with the red of his blood.
He fights down the urge to be sick and drops the helmet to the floor. The sound of screaming has stopped, and he isn’t sure now if it wasn’t just him or his imagination as he looks around.
Bathed in a malevolent red light is a flight deck, but one unlike any other he has ever seen. It is partly of Federation design but with very advanced controls and yet it is something else, something more organic. A handful of oversized flight chairs are occupied by black clad, helmeted figures that he knows are his fellow crew. All of them lay still in their confinement, apart from one.
The other one is picked out by a coruscating light that shifts up and down through colours in the visible spectrum and perhaps beyond. The other’s body twitches in his chair and Raige can see blood oozing from beneath the helmet. The illuminating light is projecting down from a point in the centre of the flight deck, from what might be a natural focus or point of reference within the deck.
To Raige it is like some malevolent eye gazes down on his crew mate, burning away his…soul. The word comes unbidden, unfamiliar even, and as soon as it does that baleful light shifts to him and that terrible, dread feeling of horror and nausea washes over him anew. His hairs stand on end as he feels his mind assaulted.
His brain begins to feel like it is being sliced apart and he cries in anguish, falling off his flight chair to the floor. The metallic tentacles of the helmet reach towards him again and in a fury born of fear he hurls the helmet at the manifestation in the middle of the flight deck.
There is a flare of bright white sparks and a smell of ozone and burning flesh. The figures in the flight chairs twitch and Raige Meson’s world fades from consciousness…
: Re: A Nightmare...or a memory?
: Ant February 03, 2013, 12:03:23 PM
The Flight Seats

: Re: A Nightmare...or a memory?
: Ant February 25, 2013, 09:23:53 PM

just sayin...